


Things on Fire, Things That Fall

by verilyvexed



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Case Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-16
Updated: 2011-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:10:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verilyvexed/pseuds/verilyvexed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'09 film canon with a sprinkle of book. <i>"We have visitors, Watson. Two of them. Women, unless I am mistaken, and one of them is wearing either new shoes or very uncomfortable old ones."</i></p><p>(That's a rather dreadful summary, isn't it?  My apologies.  Watson gets dragged into assisting with a case, then later gets dragged out of the Thames.  No, that's not quite right either.  Erm... there's banter, arguing, injuries, and awkward confessions over a dead body.  Gift fic for 2010 Holmestice exchange.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thursday_Next](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thursday_Next/gifts).



Seventeen.  Sixteen.  Fifteen.

Pause.  Holmes tilts his head.  Ah - Mrs Hudson saying farewell, no doubt.

Fourteen.  Thirteen.  Twelve.  

In a mad scramble, he kicks his syringe off the side-table and under the settee whilst shoving the scatter of empty bottles of seven-per-cent solution beneath his chair.  They number easily into the double digits, and he finds some perverse pleasure into keeping evidence of his weakness in constant view.

Eleven.  Ten.  Nine.  

It has been a month and fourteen days since he last saw Watson.  It was a Tuesday, as he recalls.  No, a Wednesday.  Yes, a Wednesday, for it was the day he broke the bow of his Stradivarius.  A Wednesday, fair weather for moving.  That night it had turned to rain.

Eight.  He waits for it - and there it is, the tell-tale creak on the seventh stair.  Predictability causes him to smile.  It's pleasant to know things.

Six.  Five.  Four.

He takes up the paper.  It rustles loudly as he opens it, and he leans back into a studied pose of relaxation.

Three.  Two.  One.  Four shuffling steps.  The turn of the handle.

Watson opens the door and Holmes pretends not to notice.

The good doctor clears his throat, and Holmes considers ignoring even that.  "Oh, Watson, it's you."  He turns an acidic smile on his erstwhile flatmate.  "Is it time for my check-up already?"

Watson looks decidedly uncomfortable, shifting his weight from foot to foot and seeming confused by the marked lack of a tantrum on Holmes's part.  He has every right to be nervous.  A month, an entire month has passed, without so much as a word.  This is not an irrational reaction, for Holmes simply does not do irrational.  It would imply a lack of logic.

"Holmes," he says cheerfully.  "How have you been?"

"Terribly ill.  I almost died."

A gratifying crease appears between Watson's tidy brows as he steps closer.  "Have you really?"

"For all _you_ know, I have."  Holmes sets aside the paper and picks up instead his violin.  He begins plucking in tuneless agitation.

Exasperation replaces concern.  Watson's face is absurdly easy to read.  "Holmes, it's only been a month.  You were perfectly aware I was moving.  It isn't as if I deserted you."

"Have a seat, Watson.  Tell me of your present state of affairs.  Or are you so remarkably busy you must dash off again at once?"

Already Watson is pinching the bridge of his nose, and that isn't the reaction Holmes had hoped for at all.  Watson isn't typically this easily provoked, but the signs are clear enough to read.  Dark circles under the eyes.  He hasn't been sleeping.  He has, however, put on the slightest bit of weight; it isn't unflattering.  Many meals with Mary, many evenings with Mary, many nights with Mary.

Holmes sets aside his violin.  Music is distasteful.

"The practice _is_ busy, as it so happens.  Thank you for asking, in that rather roundabout fashion.  And have you been keeping busy?"

"Of course."  Holmes nudges the small mountain of empty glass vials further under his chair with his heel.  That isn't the sort of occupation Watson would find acceptable. "The Glastonbury case - you read of it in the paper, I presume?"

"That was you?  I wouldn't have thought you'd have been interested."

Petty robbery, easily solved.  So easily the Yard had done it on their own.  Holmes does not correct Watson's misconception.

"After all these years, I still manage to surprise you.  How delightful.  Will you be staying for luncheon, then?  Shall I ring Nanny and have her send up--"

"No, actually," Watson interrupts, and Holmes can tell from the slant of his gaze that the next few words will be displeasing.  "I'm meant to be lunching with Mary today.  I only stopped by for a moment.  There were some books I left in my room I find I have need of."

"I threw them away."

"What?" Watson's outrage is instant, and palpable.  It is so nice to be able to provoke a reaction.

"Watson, please, be reasonable.  You had left, perhaps with no intention of ever returning--"

"Holmes, you cannot possibly believe I would _never_ return--"

"And with these rooms being as expensive as they are, and the criminal element of London decidedly lacklustre as of late, who knows how I might foot the bill?  I might have needed to take on another lodger.  Honestly, Watson, it was rather inconsiderate of you, leaving your belongings about."  

(The belongings left behind comprise: three yellow-back novels; an old rugby ball; five books of practical medical knowledge; a spare bag of medical supplies; a collection of newspaper clippings; one pair of boots, too small; a waistcoat, now in Holmes' wardrobe; a shirt, now ridiculously wrinkled, crumpled beneath Holmes' pillow.)

The vein in Watson's forehead has made an abrupt appearance, and Holmes wonders how he manages so easily to provoke such a state of ire in his friend these days.  It really is staggering.

"You, take on another lodger.  As if anyone would be demented enough to share a room with you."

"You were."

"Luckily I came to my senses!"  Watson bellows, exiting the room in high colour.  

Holmes drags a hand over his face.  "Watson, don't be hasty," he calls, rising to follow.  How the doctor could be idiotic enough to think that Holmes could possibly have been so careless as to bin his belongings is beyond him.  

Watson slams the door to his room, evidently displeased upon finding it empty.  Of course Holmes couldn't leave all his things lying about, the few scant articles somehow making the entire apartment feel deserted.  

"Watson," he murmurs, tone apologetic.  

"Holmes, really, how could you?"  There is such a look of exasperation and weariness on Watson's face that it is nearly unbearable to hold.  Holmes' lips twitch.  He has lost his hold on Watson entirely.

"I didn't.  There."  He indicates the wardrobe in the corner, in which Watson's belongings - apart from his shirt and waistcoat - are neatly packed.  He watches as Watson crosses to the wardrobe, relief evident in the curve of his shoulders.  Holmes wants to tell him he couldn't have, but he doesn't.  He isn't fond of wasting words.

Watson clears his throat after taking up the books and straightens, stands awkwardly.  "May I leave the others for now?"

"As long as you like," Holmes replies immediately.  "Watson, surely you must know you are always welcome here."

"You have made it abundantly clear," comes the muttered reply.

Holmes squeezes his eyes shut as Watson brushes past.  Thinks of things he could say, things he could do.  None of them would help.  "You're leaving already?" he asks, catching up with Watson in the sitting room.

"I thought I might stay, but is there any point?  You will only continue to be absolutely, intolerably, insufferably opposed to my impending marriage, though why you should be so set against my future happiness is truly puzzling, I must confess."

Is that what he thinks?  Fascinating.  Untrue, but fascinating.  "I am not opposed to your happiness, Watson.  Merely your marriage."  He retrieves the box of cigars from the coal scuttle and passes one to Watson, motioning him into his chair.  It is still Watson's chair.  Holmes only last week shooed a client out of it at the cost of a case.

Though Watson accepts, he seems somewhat surprised at having done so.  He sinks into his chair and Holmes feels a knot in his chest loosen some small degree.  "I cannot for the life of me think why you should dislike Mary so."

Holmes lights his cigar.  Watson really is terribly unobservant at times.  "It isn't that I dislike her - though I do.  Women are not to be trusted, Watson, not the best of them.  They are emotional, unpredictable, and --"

"And not so dissimilar to yourself," says Watson, lips quirking into something like a smile.  He has exhaled his anger in transparent blue puffs.  The smoke curls around his head like a halo and he seems relaxed, even amused.  Holmes feels himself follow suit.

"Watson," he says gravely, "I do hope you're not attempting to tell me that I'm pretty."

Watson laughs, fully and unexpectedly, and it is the most glorious sound Holmes has heard in one month and fourteen days.  His attention is pulled away the precise moment the laugh turns from something loud and involuntarily to a throaty, appreciative chuckle.  Footsteps on the stairs.  He begins his count.  

"We have visitors, Watson.  Two of them.  Women, unless I am mistaken, and one of them is wearing either new shoes or very uncomfortable old ones.  You'll do me the honour of listening in on the consultation, surely?"  He allows himself to express on his face the uncertainty he feels.  Watson will appreciate it, he thinks.

Or he could be mistaken.  Watson looks away.  "Holmes, we've been through this."

"One last case.  For old time’s sake."

"We've _had_ our last case.  The Lord Blackwood case.  It wouldn't be right, rushing into fistfights or gunfights or who knows what all else and leaving Mary at home to worry.  I'm a doctor, Holmes, not-- not whatever you think I am."

"I thought merely that you were my friend, Watson.  If I am mistaken..."  He realises he's probably attempting to draw guilt rather too strongly, but it is somehow more acceptable to admit the truth when one can rest assured it will be written off as histrionics.

Watson's level look tells him he's pushing the boundaries of the doctor's good humour.  It seems appropriate to offer a suitable rebuttal: Holmes says nothing, only gives Watson the earnest and very sincere look of pleading that has proved so very useful in the past.

With a sigh, Watson relents.  "All right.  I'll stay long enough to hear their story.  Then I really must go."

Holmes continues to gaze, nodding in understanding.

"I mean it, Holmes.  I really do," Watson protests, but the corners of his lips are threatening to tilt upward.

"And I wouldn't dream of imposing," says Holmes.

Watson snorts.

 

  
• • •  


 

“Pray, start at the beginning. Omit nothing.”  

“It’s awful,” says the lady introduced as Mrs Anna Sullivan.  She is short and round all over, from the kind, plump face to the fullness of her figure.  Her hair falls in golden ringlets over her splotchy red cheeks.  She has been crying, and still is.  Her green frock speaks of money in the same subtle manner her red-rimmed eyes speak of tragedy.  Holmes does not get a good look at her shoes, but can infer from the state of the bottom of both women’s dresses that they arrived in a carriage.  “There was— was a shot—” she begins tremulously, before Mrs Nora Winscott interrupts.

“Perhaps I had best tell this story.  Mrs Sullivan tends to blather on the best of days.  Charles Winscott, Mr Holmes, is my husband.  Her brother.  And it would seem he has gone missing.”  The venomous look shot in Mrs Sullivan’s direction by Mrs Winscott is not lost.

Like her companion, Mrs Nora Winscott’s appearance speaks of class and money.  Yet there is a sharpness to her appearance, from the angular features of her face to the thin rigidity of her posture.  Her eyes show no sign of tears, merely shrewdness.  She does much writing; it is evident from her sleeve.  Right-handed.

“Mr Winscott had retired to his study—” she continues.

“When?” asks Holmes.

“Just past one, it must have been.  We had just taken luncheon.  Perhaps an hour later, there came a crash from his bedroom.  I thought he had simply knocked something over, so we paid no mind.  But then, several minutes after that, there was a gunshot.  It was frightening, I am sure you can understand, as my husband owns no firearms.  So we fetched a manservant then hastened to the room, only to find no one there.  Not even Mr Winscott.  The grounds were searched and all the rooms, but there was no sign of him.”  She speaks clearly and seems more puzzled than distraught.

“Did you notice anything of interest in the room?  The source of the crash, perhaps?”

“Oh, yes - he had broken a vase.  But there was nothing else.  Nothing.”

“I should like a look myself,” says Holmes, rising.  “You have a carriage waiting, do you not?”

Mrs Sullivan looks faintly surprised, marking the first time since her entrance that Holmes has seen her look anything but near sobbing.  It is a marked improvement.

“Why, yes, how did you —”

“I heard it arrive.”  The look of astonishment falls from her face; clearly, she is thinking _Oh, of course_.

(Next time, he vows, his reply will be, “It’s magic.”)

Watson, he notices, has risen from his chair and is inching toward the door.  When caught, he looks guilty.

“Watson?”

“Holmes, I’ve told you—” he begins with a sigh.

“Now see here, these women need comforting!" Holmes says with great indignation.  "Look how distressed they are.  As you said yourself, you are a doctor.  Is it not your profession - nay, your very life's work - to ease suffering wherever you may find it?"

“Holmes, really…”  Watson’s eyes dart to the women, still on the settee.    
“Watson, I fail to see how you can be so selfish in the face of such desolation,” he proclaims, extending his hand toward the tremulous Mrs Sullivan.  “This poor chap may never be found without your assistance.  Lost forever!  Is that a risk you’re willing to take?”

Mrs Sullivan begins sobbing.  Watson glares at Holmes but has his handkerchief out.  

Holmes turns to fetch his hat and cane, trying not to hum.  It is then he catches Mrs Winscott regarding Watson rather appraisingly, and he finds himself clenching his jaw.  As he brushes past, he leans in to whisper, “He’s engaged.  Very.  I wouldn’t bother.”

“Why, I never—”

“Shall we?” he interrupts brightly, then attempts to tone down his pleasure at the disapproving look he receives from Watson.  Smiling when presented with a case generally isn’t the best of reactions - how often he forgets.  Holmes gives Watson an apologetic smile, raking a hand through his hair.  They aren’t out the door yet; best not to push his luck.  The four set off: Watson exasperated, Mrs Sullivan still prettily weeping, Mrs Winscott perturbed, Holmes euphoric.

There is a potential murder to investigate.  The regular police are not yet involved.  A carriage is waiting to speed them away.  And in the end, Watson caves.

Every day should be so grand.

 

  
• • •  


 

The door to Charles Winscott’s bedroom is opened.  Immediately, Watson sneezes.  Dust, glorious dust, has settled in a thin layer on the surfaces of tables and a wooden wardrobe, has collected in notched grooves on the posts of the elaborately carved bed, is even now swimming in the breeze before the window and dancing in the light, and - better yet - covering the grainy floorboards.

“Your housekeeper is atrocious,” says Holmes.  “Kindly give her my regards.”

“Mr Winscott prefers his room remain untouched,” Mrs Winscott informs him rather coldly.

“Mr Holmes meant no offence,” Watson assures her.  “What he lacks in civility he makes up for in results.  It is my professional opinion he was dropped on his head as a child and has been rendered thus.  Please, pay him no mind.”

Holmes steps in and throws his arm out when the ladies attempt to follow.   A sharp noise of protestation escapes his throat, as if he were scolding a dog.  They have been in here already; he can tell by their tracks.  Now it's his turn.

He leaves Watson to make excuses for his behaviour and drops to the floor, peering closer.  Narrow boots shuffled around the door: the valet.  Flocked by dainty boots: the women.  A small, expensive set of boots - which, he quickly realises - match perfectly the soles of those sitting by the end of the bed.  Barefoot steps around the bed only, the same size.

And another set of steps.  Quite large.  He traces them backwards, from the bed to the window.  Atop the sideboard, beside a fallen and broken vase and just beneath the open window, there remains the perfect outline of a boot.  "Watson."

Watson is by him in an instant.  "What have you found?"

"Do you recognise this?" he asks, indicating the style of tread.  "Your notebook," he says, extending his hand, not bothering to wait for a reply.

He quickly sketches the shape and pattern, then snaps the book shut and passes it to Watson.  It is not known to him.  Something to learn.  And yet.  He follows the steps with his eyes - back to the bed, then...

"Where has the rug gone?" he asks.

"What?" Mrs Sullivan walks around the edge of the bed; Holmes does not bother being annoyed by her entrance.  "Oh!  The rug is missing!"

“Yes, how very observant.  I take it you did not yourselves move it, then.”  There is upon the floor a sharp outline in the shape of a rectangle which, as it leads away from the bed, blurs into into smudged indiscernibilty.  The large footsteps appear sporadically around the clean streak which cuts from those two sharp corners to the wardrobe.  Holmes follows, shadowing the footsteps with his own.  It becomes apparent their maker was staggering as he walked.  

He flings open the doors to the wardrobe.  A surprising lack of garments are stored within, the sizes of which indicates a short but rather wide owner.  “Where did your husband keep the rest of his clothing, Mrs Winscott?”

“It’s all there.  He never paid much mind to what he was wearing.”

“Is it then likely he would possess a shirt stained with some small amount of blood?” Holmes enquires, glancing over his shoulder.

The wide-eyed look of Mrs Winscott is enough of a reply.  Not likely, then.  Several drops stain the wardrobe’s bottom, dried but still tacky to the touch.  Holmes stands back for a moment, simply surveying the monstrous piece of furniture - hulking and ominous, looking as if it were carved whole from a tree trunk.  Abruptly, he climbs in and shuts the door.

He sees but ignores rather baffled looks the women are giving him as he hops out and crosses back to the bed.  There is a large indentation in the centre of the mattress.

“And where do you sleep, Mrs Winscott?”

An indignant huff preludes her speech.  “I fail to see how that is any of your concern, Mr Holmes.”

“I see.  And is Mr Winscott fond of sleeping in the day time?”  

“Never,” Mrs Sullivan says.  “Even as a child, Charles wasn’t one for naps.  ‘There’s too much to do for me to be sleeping,’ he’d say, though all he ever seemed to be doing was going through those strange books of his.”

“Strange books?” asks Watson.

The counterpane is wrinkled as if it has been stretched toward the window.  Holmes’ hand roams lightly over the surface, over the intricate stitching, coming to rest at what would seem nothing more than an insignificant hole, fairly lost in the design, were it not for the dark, damp patch surrounding it.  The stain streaks along with the creases, as if reaching toward the window, and is lost.  

Mrs Sullivan is engaged in a lengthy and poetic discourse on the subject of the aforementioned ‘strange books,’ their topics spanning from astronomy and chemistry to engineering and architecture.  Holmes interrupts.  “Who should want to harm Mr Winscott?  Are either of you aware of enemies he might have had?”

Mrs Sullivan seems astonished by the question, appalled that he should even think Mr Winscott capable of instilling anything but love and awe in those with whom he was acquainted.

“Is this Mr Winscott’s pocket-watch?”  He holds aloft the object in question, its gleaming gold surface seemingly unmarred by either scratch nor scrape.

“It is!  But what on earth could it be doing there?  Charles never leaves it, never even takes it off during the day time,” says Mrs Sullivan, working herself into a minor panic.

Holmes looks to Mrs Winscott for confirmation; she nods.  “He winds it before sleep, unfailingly.  That is the only time in all the years I’ve known him that he has removed it during the day.”

“Watson, tell me what you think.”  Holmes hands the watch to him before sinking to his knees and peering about beneath the bed.  “And a light, if you would be so kind.”  A lit candle is passed to him momentarily, though by its light he can see nothing but an even greater accumulation of dust.

“This is remarkable,” murmurs Watson, turning the watch over in his hands.  “It looks never to have even been used.  I think I can infer nothing from it, Holmes”

“On the contrary, I think that should say a great deal.  Only one other watch have I seen in such superb condition once being passed into circulation, and that is the watch which the Yard gifted me with last autumn, still in the box, somewhere in my study.  This watch belonged to a careful man.  Possibly too careful to go careening into furniture and knocking over vases.”  He holds the watch to his ear and hears the steady ticking.  Taking the key in hand, he winds it - less than two turns, for it will go no further.  “Interesting,” he says, and sets it back where he found it.

“What have you discovered, Holmes?”

Holmes returns to the sideboard.  He nudges the vase with his foot, pushing aside the bulk of the shattered remains, and places his hands flat on the sideboard.  Solid.  Easily strong enough to support one man’s weight.  They room is on the first storey, some distance from the ground; he can see the garden, grass brittle with cold, through the open window.  

“Watson, I wonder if you might be so kind as to assist me.  It is an unlikely notion, but best to rule it out conclusively.  Place your weight here.”  Holmes leans forward, lifting himself off the balls of his feet and placing his weight almost entirely upon the table.  

The warm weight of Watson behind him is a surprise, though it will no doubt serve his purposes better to have the weight centralised in such a manner, rather than having Watson to either side.  Arms align with his and Watson pushes gently, bodily, into him as he bears down upon the table.  The pressure is slight yet overwhelming; Holmes realises his eyes have closed only from the brilliant starburst behind them - and a faint cracking which he is certain has erupted from his own mind, for it is decidedly fractured.  But no - the table.  He comes back to himself, remembers to breathe.  “That’s enough,” he says, hardly above a whisper.

Watson steps away, stealing back his warmth, and clears his throat.  

Though his eyes are intent upon the surface of the sideboard and his hands ghost over it as if seeking some clue, Holmes finds himself shaken and unable to focus.  With effort, he draws his concentration back. The polished tabletop gleams through the tracks in the dust: the now-smeared footprint, the blurred smears from his fingertips, the outline of Watson’s hands.

Watson.  Watson, just behind him, warm and necessary and completely unnerving.

Holmes perceives his proximity too sharply now, as if Watson’s move to Cavendish Place and subsequent removal of his constant presence now makes contact with him all the more potent.  Holmes turns these distilled sensations over in his mind as he had the watch with his hands, seeking answers to questions he has yet to formulate.

Even now, the impression persists.  A pleasant apprehension that tightens his abdomen.  The shudder that accompanied his harsh, involuntary inhalation.  And when Watson places his hand upon Holmes’ wrist as if to steady him, asking if anything is amiss, a tingle spreads out from the top of his hand where fingertips kiss bare flesh - the prickle of gooseflesh.  Shattered cognition.  Thoughts eclipsed by sensation.  By Watson.

The look Holmes shoots in the doctor’s direction is accusatory.  Helpless.  He jerks his hand away and turns his attention back to the bed, an aimless gesture that serves no purpose other than to give himself a moment to collect his thoughts.  That he should need to do such a thing at all is frankly terrifying.  He stares at the intricate pattern criss-crossing the fabric and rubs his face.

Sideboard.  Sideboard.  Sideboard.  Footprint - yes.  One man entered.  None left, at least not by that route.  Of course.

“I’d like to see outside,” he says.

 

  
• • •  


 

The ground is too hard to have left any useful impressions, though it is evident someone was here.  A trellis overgrown with winter-dead roses served as a ladder.  Crushed blossoms mark the ascent.  Holmes’ theory is confirmed: one man entered.  There are incomplete footprints made by clotted dirt which match the one seen upon the sideboard.  

Now he knows to look for it, he finds scattered dirt in the foyer.  A footprint descending the stairs.

“Someone was here.  Tall, as indicated by the length of his stride.  Wearing some variety of heavy boots.  Working class, I would surmise, as they are in shabby condition.  The soles are quite worn.  Where he is, I cannot yet say, but I imagine he knows what came to be of Mr Winscott.”

Mrs Winscott looks faintly nauseous.

“When can you find him?” asks Mrs Sullivan earnestly.  “You will find him, won’t you?”

Holmes rubs the back of his head, too aware of Watson standing beside him on the landing, elbow brushing his casually.  “To request I put a timetable on such a thing is to ask the impossible, Mrs Sullivan.  As of yet I have little to go on.  I assure you, however, I will find the body.”

At Mrs Sullivan’s horrified shriek, he realises what he has said and holds his hands up in a gesture meant to be soothing, but which he realises belatedly looks rather more like a sign of surrender.  “That is, I will find your brother.  Mr Winscott.  Don’t listen to me, please - blood and the absence of a rug roughly the size of a man’s height is no indicator of--”  His voice trails off.  Three pairs of eyes are regarding him with varying degrees of horror.  “I wonder, might I see his study?”

Watson is largely silent, though helpful, until they are ushered into the study.  “Holmes,” he says quietly, leaning disconcertingly close as he speaks, “how long do you expect this might take?”

“Have I not just answered that question?”

Though Mrs Sullivan was sent off with a serving girl to rest her frayed nerves, Mrs Winscott remains behind to answer any questions. She watches them curiously. Her eyes seem drawn to Watson, more often than not, and there they tend to linger - a fact which sets Holmes' teeth inexplicably on edge.

“Searching _here_ , I meant, as you very well know,” says Watson, unamused.  “You will recall I have plans.”

“Not long.  Be patient, my dear Watson.  If you keep snapping your watch shut in such an agitated manner, you shall certainly break it.”

“Perhaps if I had no cause to be agitated,” Watson replies through gritted teeth, “I might find myself able to refrain.  We have been at this nearly two hours, Holmes.  What precisely do you expect to find here, might I ask?”

“In here?  Very likely nothing,” murmurs Holmes, eyes roaming the bookshelves.  Leather-bound volumes gleam in the dim light - a varied assortment indeed, as indicated earlier by Mrs Sullivan.  Had Mr Winscott read half of them and understood them, Holmes has little doubt he would make an interesting conversationalist, if nothing else.  He can see nothing that might provide motive for murder, however, and turns his attention to the desk.

“Then why, pray tell, are we here?” asks Watson, easing into the chair before the desk.  At a glance Holmes can tell his leg is troubling him and feels a twinge of guilt.  “Is this simply a further ploy to wreck my plans and, consequently, my life?”  

Holmes will draw out the investigation long enough to give the doctor a chance to rest.  The ruination of meal plans can hardly be helped.  “You flatter yourself, Watson.  I am merely doing my job.”

The ink well on the desk is nearly dry.  A few papers litter the surface - correspondence of seemingly no importance.  Winscott has recently placed a small order of copper wire.  The drawers are locked.  Holmes wonders if he might get Watson to distract Mrs Winscott long enough for him to utilise his lock pick, but there seems little hope in getting a chance to ask.  She stands in the doorway, arms crossed, regarding him as one might a particularly irritating bluebottle.

Her impatience mirrors Watson’s own.  Only a few minutes after their entry, she steps in, pulling the door closed behind her.

“Have you found anything, Mr Holmes?”

The world is intent on rushing him.  “I have found a great many things, but none which seem to have any bearing on this particular case.  Your husband is a businessman, you mentioned.  What business?”

“Shipping, though he fancies himself an inventor.  He’s gone so far as to purchase a warehouse so that he may store freight for clients and have a place to pursue his little experiments.  Does _that_ have any bearing on this particular case?”

Holmes ignores the barb and tugs again on the drawer handle.  “And this drawer...?”

“Is locked.  You came highly recommended, Mr Holmes, but I can see evidence of nothing more than my time being wasted.  I should prefer it greatly if you would cease your nonsense and leave now.”  

“Nonsense,” he repeats, brows rising.  “Watson, did you hear that? Apparently, conducting an investigation is _nonsense._ ”

“Holmes,” says Watson, and the warning look is almost enough.

Almost.

 

  
• • •  


 

 

“I hope you’re happy,” says Watson in a tone which indicates he wishes anything but.  His explosive exhalation of disgust is visible in the chill air, his hands are shoved in his pockets, his shoulders hunched.  There is nothing soft or relaxed about him until he turns, glancing at Holmes in his periphery.  “How’s your jaw?”

The Winscotts employ a cook of considerable height, even greater girth, and a rather ferocious left hook.  As a gentleman, Holmes would not be drawn into fisticuffs with a woman.  A most regrettable decision.  He does not respond to the question, figuring the bruise to be reply enough.

Still, it is a most tricky little puzzle he has been shown.  The earth crunches satisfyingly beneath his feet as they make their way off the grounds.  “And your leg?”

Watson does not reply, either.  The pronounced limp speaks for itself.  Holmes bites his lip.

“An intriguing mystery, Watson, don’t you think?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“And why not?”

“Do you honestly intend to continue after -- after traumatising one client and insulting the intelligence of the other before being literally kicked out of their home by the help?”

“She has unreasonably sharp shoes.”

“That is hardly the point, Holmes.”

“But still, Watson - are you not curious?  Surely you’ll do me the honour of--”

“Honour of what, pray tell?” he demands, coming to a stop. He faces Holmes, an agitated crease between his brows.  “Honour of allowing you to ruin my life?  Interrupt every set of plans I have ever made which did not include you?  Dismantle the one other relationship I have of any importance?  Honour of-- honour of allowing you to destroy absolutely everything I have been working toward?  Which of those, Holmes?  Regardless of how you may state it, you will be asking that I do you the honour of one of those things.”

The cold has finally got to him, for he feels himself shiver.  “I don’t...”  The accusation in Watson’s eyes in unbearable.  Shame casts his gaze aside.  The trees lining the path offer no solace, their bare limbs naked and void of life, stark brittle fingers seeming to echo Watson’s pointed wrath.

“Don’t what, Holmes?”  Watson steps closer, the fog of his furious breath hanging about them like a mist.  “Don’t consider even for a moment anyone but yourself?”

That Watson should think so is startling.  “Watson, that is -- nothing could be further from the truth.”

“My apologies, old man,” he says bitterly.  “My mistake.  The corpses, the victims, the criminals - Scotland bloody Yard!  I forgot about them.  I do so hope you can forgive me,” he mutters, turning with shaking head and stomping off down the path.  

Holmes stares after him, speechless.  It is an unfair accusation.  True, those things occupy a small percentage of his thoughts, as do a great many other subjects - what man could say any different when presented with the foundations of his livelihood?  

Yet there is a flaw in Watson’s theory. The doctor has failed to note that he occupies a greater quantity of Holmes’ waking thoughts than any of those things, and an increasing number of his sleeping ones.

 

  
• • •  


 

The syringe is tempting, but the case at hand is even more so.  And being thrown forcibly from a residence does not necessarily recension of a request for help make.

The fire crackles in the hearth, the one spot of warmth in all of London.  Holmes sits before it, curled into his chair, pipe lit, pouch of strong black shag handy.  He will consider the facts.  He will solve the case.  Watson will sleep off his anger.

 _And_ , he thinks sardonically, _they all lived happily ever after_.

Focus.

A man.  Murdered.  (Rug missing, nowhere else in the residence.  Stolen?  Of little value.  Wrapped around a live man?  Unlikely.)

Yet one man could not have lifted the bulk of Charles Winscott, deceased, alone.  From the size of his boots and the clothing in the closet, not to mention the depression in the bed, Mr Winscott was a large man.  He was not hefted out the window: the dust on the sideboard testified to this.

Down the stairs?  Someone in the house would have heard, would have seen.  Must have been involved.

Two men.  One to carry, one to shoot.  But why?

Holmes considers it only for a moment.  Not enough data.  Next question.

When?  Simple enough.  Some short time after one.  That has been made clear.  However...

The boots by the bed.  The recently wound watch.  Drag marks on the counterpane.  A man, who never sleeps in the day, shot in bed.

Holmes inhales deeply, on his second pipe by now, dimly aware of the waves of thick smoke rolling like an upturned, translucent ocean above his head.  His eyes are intent but unseeing, focused on the flames.

He considers the women: Mrs Sullivan, oblivious to her sister-in-law’s displeasure, caustic attitude.  An emotional wreck.  Mrs Winscott, un-grieving widow, undesirous of help. (Absolutely lacking in manners and appreciation.)  Her involvement?  Plausible.  

Why?

He needs more data.  There are too many reasons a wife might wish a husband dead.

Fleetingly, thoughts of Miss Mary Morstan arise, bringing with them thoughts of Watson.  He feels a twist in his chest.  Next question.

But there are no more questions, at least none he can ask of himself - only answers to be sought elsewhere.  It has grown dark during his ruminations, night and icy rainfall covering the city.  With a lengthy stretch he rises, stokes the fire, and lights the lamp.  Listlessly, he gazes out the window.  Nothing pulls his interest.  He closes the drapes.

Picks up the violin, plucks at it distractedly.  Sets it aside.  Checks his watch.  Feels neither tired nor sleepy, only wretchedly unsettled.

His gaze crawls like a thing with weight toward the desk, towards the drawer that holds the syringe.

Watson would object.

Watson is not here.

The case, he thinks - but there is nothing more for grasping fingers to sift through, nothing more he can do tonight.

A book, he considers.  Any book.  Correspondence.  He pulls the jackknife from the mantle, dislodging envelopes, but can’t seem to be bothered and simply watches them flutter gracelessly to the floor.  One falls into the hearth.  He stares, eyes watering from the smoke as the blaze consumes the unread words within.  He cannot seem to bring himself to care.

The case will keep.

He opens the drawer.

An empty mind is a blessed thing.

 

  
• • •  


 

Mrs Hudson tuts disapprovingly as she clears away the uneaten breakfast.  Holmes stirs from his stiff-jointed position on the settee, blinking blearily in the hazy afternoon light.  She has left him tea, and he drinks it down gratefully, hoping it might wash away the remains of the nightmare from which he has just awoken.

Gunshots rang out.  Watson was fatally injured.  It had been Holmes’ fault entirely - a miscalculation, an error in logic.  As Watson had lain breathing his last, he held Holmes with arms already gone weak, patting him feebly; his last act had been an attempt to ease Holmes’ suffering.

It should have been the other way around.  He woke fairly drenched in shame.

Holmes sets the empty teacup aside shakily, startled by the rattle as it hits the saucer.  Just a dream.  Nothing more.  No bearing on reality.  

Except.

Hastily, he performs his ablutions and departs from Baker Street.  There is work to be done today.  The gratitude he feels toward the fact is overwhelming.

Several hours later, he finds the edge has worn off his apprehension.  He pauses beneath an awning to escape the downpour, considering his next move.  None of the morning papers mentioned the disappearance of Charles Winscott, nor did any report finding a body.  A telegramme sent to Lestrade requested he be informed if such a thing were to turn up.  Finally, a trip to the solicitor in charge of Winscott’s estate uncovered little in the way of clues.  The estate was bequeathed to the sister and widow equally.  

Ostensibly this makes them suspects, but there is no obvious way in which their fortunes would have been improved directly by his death.  Already they were cared for - yet the operative word in this instance is ‘obvious,’ so Holmes shall explore other avenues.  He lights a cigarette, flame cradled by his hand against the gusts that sporadically render the cover he has found useless.  It will abate, he has no doubt, and he has the endlessly stimulating street life of London to occupy him in the meanwhile

A costermonger stands on the opposite corner, mindless of the wet.  She hawks oranges and candle-wax.  Yet he can get no good look at her for the deluge, and her boots have been washed clean of any interesting traces of soil.  His attention is then turned closer to hand as a hansom pulls up beside him.  Immediately, as if portentous, the downpour turns to drizzle.  The driver opens the door and Watson steps out.

Holmes instinctively presses himself to the wall behind him, as if this will somehow hide him.  But it isn’t Watson, no, and upon catching a better look at the face it was perhaps foolhardy of him to have thought so.  No moustache, the brows rather longer.  This man’s eyes are dark.  Yet in his bearing there is the same careless grace, a sensuous economy of movement that even military training could not beat down.  The physique, too, is remarkably similar, and Holmes is unashamed of staring - it is his business, after all, to be staring - until the man turns and looks at him.

His interest has been misinterpreted.  The fellow walks toward Holmes, rain dripping off his hat in a sparkling fringe as he lifts lowered lids, the look in his eyes unmistakable, the corners of his lips curling impishly.  Had Holmes not already had his back flat against the wall, he would’ve fallen against it.  The fellow passes by, unhurriedly, and casts an appraising glance over his shoulder at Holmes: a quick once-over, up and down.

The cigarette has burned itself out.  Holmes rumples his hair and ducks into the nearest alley, lest his friend return.  Two women exit the public house adjacent by use of a side-door, their raucous laughter no adequate distraction from his rapid-fire, incoherent thoughts.  

It was not Watson.  Therefore, he is not attracted to the stranger.  No, no, no.  He is _not_ attracted to Watson.  He is not attracted to _anyone_ , especially not --

“Wouldn’t ‘alf mind ‘avin’ a go at ‘im,” remarks one of the women, startling him.

He stares, bewildered.  

“Now, now, Dora, wot’d Johnny be sayin’?  Don’t reckon your his type, anyway - nor me,” she says, her cackle punctuated with innuendo.  “Maybe dear Johnny might like --”

“Oh, hush!  It was just the one time, and he was in his cups!  Just you shut yer mouth.”  Their laughter follows them down the alley and out onto the street.

Holmes rubs a hand over his face.  Good God, is he that obvious?  No, no - it’s just the idle chatter of foolish women and their gin-soaked minds.  Nothing is obvious because nothing is _there_ ; he regards Watson as merely a friend, a comrade, a confidant.  Any jealousy which he might feel in response to Watson’s impending nuptials is --

Jealousy?  Not jealousy.  He is not jealous.  It is merely --

Further thoughts are cut short as he is shoved roughly from behind.  His face connects with the wall in an eruption of pain that flashes red behind his eyelids.  The grit of the brick scores his cheek.  He is dimly aware of a spreading, incongruous warmth at his temple.  Already he has righted himself, turning to defend if not retaliate, but the effort is overdue.  Hands close around his throat.  The breath is squeezed from him.

He attempts an assessment.  Attacker is male.  Aged late thirties.  Heavyweight, muscular arms.  Calloused hands.  Wearing wool navy peacoat.  Worn brown hat.  Facial hair ruddy.  Eyes blue.  Missing two teeth.

Holmes’ skull collides with the wall.  He realises he cannot breathe.

Unpredictability is always an asset.  Rather than struggle, he relaxes and falls into his assailant.  Unbalanced by surprise and the abrupt shift of weight, the man’s grip loosens.  He stumbles.  Holmes backs away quickly, ducking as a punch is thrown.  The kick, however, catches him off guard and he finds himself sprawled in the dirt, blinking back raindrops as he tries to catch his breath.

As he said, unpredictability is always an asset.

The hands are at his throat again immediately.  Pressure.  Moisture seeps unpleasantly through to his back, collects in the corners of his eyes, causes him to choke.  His hands paw blindly at the attacker - damp corduroy of the coat, rumpled collar.  Face.  Whiskers.  Eyes.  

Holmes’ thumbs connect.  Press.

There is a cry, and he is released, kicking madly as he rights himself.  His attacker lies against the wall, legs jutting out, hands curled protectively over his eyes.  He curses loudly, colourfully, and at great length - but Holmes barely registers it.  

Instead, he runs.


	2. The bannister has seldom been so supportive.

With uneven footfalls, he trudges heavily up the steps.  The bannister has seldom been so supportive.  He holds a handkerchief to the gash on his temple.  It is embarrassing, more than anything, to have been caught unawares.  The wound seems an appropriate punishment.  

He sways and clutches the door.  The handkerchief is soaked crimson, all evidence of its ever having been white vanished.  Perhaps he should have returned sooner.  

Footsteps from inside the apartment cause his hand to pause on the door handle.  Tension winds through him: who is waiting for him?  But then he hears it, the distinctive step-shuffle.  Watson, then.  He smiles, injuries temporarily forgot, and enters.

“Watson, so good to see you,” he says warmly, his voice still little but a hollow rasp.  He manages to stagger the few paces to his armchair before the world tilts.  His knees hit the floor with a resounding crack, and he finds himself staring blearily up at Watson, who clutches his arm.  “What brings you here?”

“Dear God, Holmes, what has happened?”  Watson’s eyes are impossibly wide.

“I have been out making enquiries.”

“Was this before or after being hit by a train?  You’re an absolute mess.”  

Steady hands come to grip Holmes at the elbows, under the arms, tugging him up.  Eyes closed, he allows himself to be pulled to the armchair.  He voices no protest as fingers, unerringly gentle, prod and press and inspect.  The touch on his face is warm, pleasant, and he had not realised the extent of the chill out of doors until this moment.  

“Really, Holmes how could you be so foolish?  You should have gone to hospital straightaway.  This needs stitches.  What would you have done had I not been here?  Fainted and bled stoically onto the rug, I suppose.  You’re impossible.”  There is an undercurrent of worry beneath his nagging and Holmes would like very much to console him - but he finds himself drifting, floating, and there exists for a moment nothing more than Watson’s hands and voice, both soothing as summer rain.

“Who did this to you?”

Holmes opens one eye.  “I failed to catch his name.  Though I did manage to lift something of interest from his pockets.”  Clumsily he rifles in his own pocket, producing between red-dirty fingers a slip of paper.  He holds it aloft then frowns as it drifts from his grip to the floor.

“Honestly, Holmes…  I suppose searching his pockets was more pressing than attempting to cease him from strangling you.”  Watson has tugged loose his collar and now removes it completely.  Holmes attempts to sit forward to assist but is prodded back into the chair.  “Don’t move.”

“I am fine, I assure you,” he says, but the slur of his words is less than reassuring.  “Do you not wish to know what I have learned regarding our case?”

“ _Your_ case, and hardly even that.  I can’t imagine your assistance is desired after yesterday.”  

“No matter.  Solving a riddle is its own reward.”  His eyes drift closed once more, and he is surrounded by blessed darkness.  Then Watson huffs in irritation and it seems a colossal effort to pry them open again.

Watson stands before him, staring at the handkerchief in disbelief.  “This was from your head?  Holmes, how long has it been bleeding?  Dear God, even your cuff is soaked.”  He runs a hand through his hair in agitation before flinging the ruined handkerchief onto the table.  “What on earth have you been doing since this happened?  How your health can be of so little concern—”

“As I said, Watson, I have been conducting an investigation.  I was attacked rather rudely before I had finished, so I—”

“So you thought it better to continue despite the fact you were _bleeding to death_.  Damn it, Holmes!” Watson veritably shouts.  

“Perhaps I should have tidied myself after the altercation.”  The excessive blood would explain the strange looks he received from the insurance salesman, the banker, the man at the telegramme office…  “But it isn’t all that bad,” Holmes says quietly, cowed by the outburst.

“Isn’t all that bad,” Watson repeats, muttering.  “Honestly, Holmes…  Stay there.  Just sit there.  Don’t move.”

It occurs to Holmes that Watson’s leaving behind a medical kit when he quit Baker Street might not have been entirely unintentional.  He rises against doctor’s orders, shrugging awkwardly out of his coat and waistcoat, becoming increasingly aware of other bruises he might have incurred.  Once stripped of the sodden garments, he sinks back down.  The armchair envelops him like a comforting embrace.  His eyes close.  Serenity overtakes him - be it from loss of blood or the sounds of Watson in the next room, he finds it of little importance.

Approaching footfalls cause him to smile softly to himself.  Perhaps being married wouldn’t be so terrible a position.

His eyes fly open.  No.  Not that -- He meant only, of course, that it is pleasant to have someone about with sympathy and iodine after a trying day.  Still, to have such a thought occur to him in any context is unsettling.  Upon Watson’s return, Holmes regards him as suspiciously as if he had entered with a meat cleaver and malicious grin rather than with his black bag and look of fond exasperation.

Holmes is assisted in moving to the settee.  Watson removes his own jacket and places it carefully on a wood-backed chair before moving back to the settee.   He perches beside Holmes, leaning in to mend what has been broken.

The antiseptic stings as he begins cleaning the wound on Holmes’ forehead.  Holmes flinches.

“Hold still,” Watson murmurs.  “I really don’t see how you manage.”

“I am sorry, Watson.  Not only for this.”  

The look of abject surprise aimed at Holmes prevents him from speaking further.  It was easy to say, for the words had been echoing in his head all morning; it was the apology he would’ve liked to have presented to the Watson whom he dreamt dying. The thickness of his voice he trusts will be credited to near strangulation.  

Watson holds his gaze.  It is somehow more uncomfortable than having been slammed face-first into a wall of bricks.  And then the moment passes as if it had never been, and Watson is once more cleaning dried blood from his face.

“That, actually,” he says stiffly, “is why I was here.  To apologise.  For yesterday.”

Then falls a silence between them, the only sound being the scraping sussurration of cloth against Holmes’s stubble.  Watson rises wordlessly and returns to the table where he has laid out his instruments.  

Holmes realises with something like terror that he is staring as Watson bends to disinfect the needle by candle flame, and his scrutiny is decidedly _not_ to deduce Watson’s earlier movements that day. (Though that is simple enough: he has not been on any calls for his suit is too creased from sitting; he has been writing, for there is an ink smear on his left cuff; he has been frustrated, for his hair in is mussed where he rubs the back of his head when vexed.)

The mindful observation with which Holmes regards Watson now serves no intellectual purpose, has no higher aim.  It is with a sort of desperate admiration that he notes the fitted cling of Watson’s trousers, the sweep of wrinkled shirtsleeves over broad shoulders, the tarnished tint of his hair in the afternoon light.  The curve of his elbow is a thing of beauty, and Holmes finds himself utterly bewildered.

The room seemingly grows warmer, though neither has stoked the fire.  Low in Holmes’ stomach creeps a feeling akin to anxiety, akin to fear, akin to the feeling one gets when grasping for a support that isn’t certain to hold - precognition of the inevitable fall.  Fleetingly, his mind returns to the man on the street who possessed no limp yet could not match Watson’s grace, the fine arc of his spine beneath the sleek coat, and the voluptuous look he cast so deliberately in Holmes direction.

Watson returns to the settee and sits absurdly close.  Holmes hopes fervently the horror he feels isn’t writ clearly across his face or, barring that, that Watson may attribute it to fear of the needle he holds.  Proximity or blood loss makes Holmes dizzy; he does not care to know which. He looks away, unprepared when Watson begins the operation.  The bite of the needle causes him to hiss.

“Just relax, Holmes.”

Holmes’ eyes are drawn back to Watson’s lips, and with each press of the needle he finds the side of his face ever approaching a pleasing numbness.  He is warm, and something like comfortable.  The edges of his vision seem blurred.  He is aware again of staring, but only dimly, and cannot be bothered to tear his eyes away.  And why should he?  Watson is agreeable to look at.  It is a plausible argument.

But the fingers at his temple have stilled.  “Holmes, you’re staring at my mouth.”

“Am I?  Hm.  Why do you suppose that is, Watson?”

Watson sighs.  “Because you have a head injury.  Lean back, old man.  And try not to tense.  You’re only making this harder on yourself.”

He speaks the truth; with each clench of his jaw, Holmes can feel the painful pull of skin.  Yet there’s something satisfying about the sting.  In analgesic counterpoint is Watson’s hand against his jaw, holding him still - a soothing contrast to the piercing stabs at his temple.  Watson’s fingers are firm, deft, exceedingly careful.  Holmes finds himself drifting again until Watson’s voice brings him back.

“Tell me what you’ve discovered.  I have no interest, you understand, but I fear you’ll lapse into unconsciousness if I don’t keep you talking.  The fact that you _aren’t_ talking is already somewhat disturbing.  What’s on that bit of paper?”

Watson really is an admirable actor when he chooses to be.  Holmes almost believes his disinterest.

“An address and a time.  The location is by the docks,  Winscott’s warehouse, to be more precise.  The time is ten this evening.”

A furrow appears between Watson’s brows.  He has finished stitching and so stands, retrieving a bandage and ointment.  “The man who attacked you had that paper?”

“Yes.  Delightful, isn’t it?”  Holmes rests his head against the back of the settee, ignoring the sudden swim of the room.  “The plot thickens.  I can’t yet imagine how this ties in with the wife, but I mean to find out.”

“The wife?”

“Ah, did I not mention?  No, you distracted me with — I was distracted.  Ah.  I visited the solicitor earlier and discovered Winscott’s estate is bequeathed to the sister and wife equally. However, an insurance policy was taken out three weeks ago, and Nora Winscott is the sole benefactor."

“That's hardly criminal,” says Watson, kneeling beside him on the settee.  “Lean up.”

Holmes does as he’s told, keeping his eyes closed.  It is easier to focus - despite the horrible tilt-sway of the earth - without having to look at Watson.  “Agreed.  Yet I suspect she is somehow tied to this warehouse business.”

“You can’t be serious.  You only find her suspicious because she insulted your intelligence.  Besides, Holmes, you’re in no condition—”

“You are a most excellent doctor, Watson.  Already I’m feeling better.”  He smiles sincerely, eyes open, and finds himself disappointed by the scowl that meets him.

“How can you be so reckless?  It could be a set-up.”  Watson regards him sceptically as he removes the lid to a glass jar of ointment.

“If it is — which I doubt, as my brawny friend from the alleyway most assuredly meant to end me, rather than present me with a clue — then it shall still lead me ever closer to solving this.”

“Holmes, I don’t like the thought of you embarking on such an errand alone.”  

Silently, he meets Watson’s gaze.  His hand rises, seemingly of its own accord, and curls possessively around Watson’s wrist.  

His brain is addled from the injury: it is the only explanation.

“I have tickets to _La Boheme tonight_ ,” says Watson, looking away.

“And I would love to go, Watson, but I really think the case must take precedence over—”

“For Mary, you fool!” Watson bellows, rising and jerking loose of Holmes’ grip.  “I meant to go with Mary.”  It is the look of aggravation and real pain which Watson seems to want to rub away forcibly that prevents Holmes from gloating, even to himself.  The use of past tense is a clear indicator where Watson will be spending his evening, even if the doctor does not yet realise it himself.

Watson paces the room, hand to the back of his head, massaging roughly.  His shoulders are knotted.  “She will never forgive me for this.”  

“You spend too much time with her as is, Watson.”

“Funny, she says exactly the same about you,” says Watson, glaring.

“You were mine first.”  The words fall from his lips unbidden and immediately, he tenses.

Head injury. It's the head injury. His eyes fly to Watson.

Watson has ceased his aimless movements and stands, back to Holmes, utterly still.  It is frightening to behold.  “You are selfish as a child,” he says finally, his proud bearing diminished somehow as he returns to the settee.  The lines on his face seem etched from regret.  He takes up the jar again.  “Let me see your neck.”

“Ah. No, it’s quite all right — I’m… I’m quite all right.  Watson, really, you’re…  You’re right.  Go the the opera.  The case is unimportant.”  Holmes cannot explain the sudden tightness in his throat, for the strangulation attempt was made hours ago.  

“I think not,” says Watson, sitting by him once again.  His thigh is pressed to Holmes’ as he begins deliberately unbuttoning Holmes’ shirt.  “Shall I tell you what will happen if I do?  I will go to the opera, become concerned for your welfare, leave early after giving Mary some flimsy excuse, then come here to find you’ve gone after all.”

“Watson, I…”  The hands on his chest are unnerving; it is a medical examination only, he tells himself, and Watson’s interest in his collarbone and shoulders purely those of a caregiver.

Yet he has no response he can voice.  An apologetic look is all he can offer as Watson’s gaze alights on his face, quizzical and searching.  The doctor’s hands lie heavy and warm on his bare chest.  He is certain the hammering thud of his heart must be as a tangible echo against Watson’s palms, a very real signifier of the perturbation and underlying yearning which plague him.  The breath he draws is tremulous.  Watson’s eyes - absurdly blue, and so close Holmes could count his eyelashes, can easily see the faint feathering of grey spanning out from the irises - lock onto his.  

“Holmes?” says Watson, too quietly, too softly, little more than an exhalation.

Holmes is awake suddenly to the sounds of the room: the rhythmic ticking of the clock, the hiss-crackle of logs being consumed in the grate, the ocean tide rise-fall of Watson’s own breathing.  Holmes clutches at his elbow - that beautiful elbow - in hopes of communicating that this excruciating moment should be allowed to continue to its inevitable conclusion.  

With no warning, Holmes clutches Watson and drags him close, before reason interrupts or logic interdicts.  Their lips meet rather more harshly than he had intended, but he trusts he will be forgiven.  After all, he has a head wound.

For a moment, the voices of uncertainty and regret are stifled; there is within him a glorious silence.  Thoughts cease to matter.  There is only sensation: Watson’s lips, dry and soft.  The tickle of a moustache.  The cotton over Watson’s shoulder, and flesh, and muscle as Holmes grips it desperately.  Then movement ceases and there is nothing more than a meeting of mouths, lips soft and obscenely pliant, motionless between shared breaths.  Holmes clings, for he experiences such a reeling in his stomach that he is convinced that he is falling.  Or flying.

Unexpectedly, Watson pulls away.  Holmes feels the absence as strongly as the loss of a limb.  His eyes drift open to find Watson regarding him uncertainly, eyes glazed as though intoxicated.  He is biting his lip.  The flush upon his cheeks is most becoming.  Holmes has no recollection of ever seeing a fairer sight.

Despite his drunken look, when Watson speaks, his words are clear.  “Why did you do that?”  

Holmes frowns.  After such an unprecedented display of affection on his part, he had hoped for something a little less... accusatory.

“It wasn’t good?” he asks hesitantly.  “I am out of practice.  Perhaps if you would permit me to try again--” He reaches for Watson, who recoils as if stung and rises from the settee.  

“I see,” says Holmes, after moments of enduring Watson’s stricken staring, though he does no such thing.  

“I cannot believe you, Holmes.” Watson’s words are heavy and each falls as a weight on Holmes’ chest, yet he cannot bear the strain without knowing the reason.

“From your willing participation - not to mention increased colour, rapid breathing, enlarged pupils... I gathered you were rather enjoying yourself.”  He runs a hand through his hair, perplexed.  

“Of course I enjoyed it!  You knew damned well I would.  God, how could I be such a fool?” Watson says, hand over his face in something like despair.  “To believe for even a second that you could show something like honest affection--  I cannot believe even _you_ would stoop so low as to use my own weakness against me.”  Watson narrows his eyes venomously as he makes for the door.

“You have confused me utterly, Watson.”  Panicked apprehension churns low in Holmes’ stomach.  He starts to rise, but it is too late.  “If you wish to resume your duties as doctor, I assure you nothing untoward will--”

“You are positively inhuman! Tend your own blasted wounds.  It is probable you deserve them,”  Watson says, exiting.  He does not look back.

The door slams behind him.

Seventeen footfalls, each angrier than the last.

Holmes drops back onto the settee slowly.

“Well, that went well,” he remarks to the empty room.  

He receives no reply.  It is a small consolation.

 

  
• • •  


 

 

Winscott’s warehouse is situated alongside the river, the western-most wall separated from the Thames by only a thin skirting of cobbled walkway.  Four storeys of soot-tinged brick stand convenient to the shipping docks, windows black with dark at this late hour, underlined by narrow ledges.

By the illumination afforded by the moon, Holmes can see well enough that not a soul has passed through the doors since he arrived half an hour ago. The slip of paper he acquired specified ten as the time for the appointment.  It is now nine.  

He rises from his hiding place behind a stack of nearby crates, stretching his legs.  Breath escapes him in clouds of white fog.  The only sound is the lapping of the river at the quay, and though he looks around in earnest, he can see no sign of life nor light nearby.  He rubs gloveless hands together to warm them before retrieving his dark lantern.   He then hastens his way to the door, staying low to the ground.  Better safe than sorry.

At the door he crouches, fumbling in his pocket, pulling out a pen-knife before finding his picklock.  Within moments, he is inside, unshuttering the lantern enough to get a look around.  Inside, there seems nothing amiss: neat stacks of crates spanning the empty space between the walls, cast iron supports jutting from floor to ceiling, dust and dirt and splinters covering the floor.  There are footprints aplenty, but none seem relevant.  Holmes peeks inside several crates whose lids have already been prised loose, but sees only marked containers of tobacco, wool, and spices.  

The staircase lines the wall opposite the door, a utilitarian metal structure that gleams in the dim light of his lantern.  He climbs as quietly as he can.  On the second and third levels, much is the same as below - fewer boxes and crates, but nothing suspicious.  

The fourth floor is nearly empty and seems to serve as an office and laboratory, for Holmes sees immediately a long table littered with bits of wire and gears, boxes of files, a desk, and a person seated behind the desk.  He freezes.

Yet there is no movement, no cry of surprise, no lit lamp that the stranger might see by, no fire in the hearth on this frigid night.  Lantern held aloft, Holmes approaches, noting the awkward manner in which the stranger sits, limbs splayed.  Feet bare.  Eyes closed.  No jacket.  Braces hanging off slumped shoulders.  A tiny scarlet ring circles a bullet wound in the man’s chest.

Winscott.  

“Why have you not bled more?” Holmes asks, placing the lantern on the desk and beginning his investigation.  He unbuttons the shirt and examines the wound.  Exit wound on the back, angle of which fits with Winscott lying in bed when the shot was fired.  Nothing under the nails.  Only the heels of his feet are dirty: he was dragged.  No sign of a struggle, no cuts or marks or other wounds.  He takes Winscott’s pen from the desk and uses it to pull back his lips.  He sniffs but smells only decay.

Bare feet.  Minimal bleeding.  His watch had been wound.  Holmes stares at the corpse.  Autopsy.  How to get the body out?  Leverage...  Boards.  Downstairs - unused planks lining the wall.  It might work.  

But.  Why is the body here?  Why now?

“Dead in your own warehouse,” Holmes murmurs, turning his attention to the papers on the desk.  Receipts, orders...  Nothing seems out of place.  He digs through the drawers.  Nothing, nothing, nothing.  He rises, intent on crossing to the table when a noise from below stills him.  Then footsteps on the stairs.  Quickly and quietly he shuts the drawers, hiding all signs of his being here apart from the most obvious.

There is absolutely nowhere to hide.  He looks around frantically.  The steps are louder now.  

 _Think, think, think_.

The ledge.  He snatches up his lantern and darts to the window farthest away from the stairs and flings it open. He glances down, bracing himself.  A drop of four storeys and only the stink of the Thames below would be enough to make his head swim even without the brain scrambling he received earlier.  The ledge is narrower than he hoped, only just wide enough to hold the lantern, but he crawls out anyway and takes a deep breath.

One foot, turned to the side, hugging the wall in an awkward parallel embrace.  He side-steps,  exhales shakily.  “If you fall, you fall into the water.  Nothing to worry about,” he mutters to himself, ignoring the skirting of pavement directly below.  And the other foot, sideways.  Side-step.  Out of view of the window.  He does not look down, stares instead over the rooftops of neighbouring buildings.  The force of the wind is phenomenal at this height, but he attempts to ignore that as well, and also the moisture which it causes to stream from his eyes.  Voices are soon audible within, drifting faintly through the open window.  He focuses on them instead.

Two men, a Cockney and a Yorkshireman, argue over distribution of something.  Holmes is certain there’s a joke in there somewhere.  The Cockney seems convinced whatever they’re spreading should be concentrated near the stairs; the Yorkshireman prefers to spread it evenly.

“This all right, Mr Lee?” asks a male someone, his tone languid and indolent.  

“It will suffice, I suppose.  Might we hurry this along?”  From his superior tone and the crisp enunciation so indicative of class, Holmes has little doubt this Mr Lee is the leader of the group.

“What about him?” asks the Northerner.

“Yes, what to do about him?” Mr Lee says, and Holmes can hear the cold smile in his voice.

Holmes scoots as close to the window as he dares, listening intently.  An achingly familiar voice reaches his ears and for a moment he cannot remember how to breathe.

“As I said, I know nothing--” Watson grunts, silenced by some act of violence to his person.  Holmes feels his fists clench, knuckles scraping brick.

“Yes, yes, so you said.  Only taking a stroll - in the pitch black, darkly dressed, with a covered lantern.  You, sir, are either very stupid or else you think I am,” Mr Lee says coolly.  “Does anyone else know you’re here?  Oh, why am I even bothering to ask?  You’ll only lie again.  Kill him, Yancy.”

Holmes nearly stumbles from the ledge in his hurry to the window.  But he is stilled when Lee speaks further.

“No, never mind.  No sense wasting a bullet.  Bind him.  There.  Let him die in the fire.”

“This a’right, Mr Lee?” asks the Cockney.

“Wonderful.  Thank you.  Let us see to those shipments then.”  

The conversation becomes muted, and then footfalls are heard again on the stairs.  As soon as they pass out of earshot, Holmes veritably throws himself inside.  There is, he quickly notices, no fire.

Watson is tied to the metal beam in the centre of the room, his back to Holmes.  His head jerks up at the faint noise of Holmes’ scurrying toward him.  Holmes drops his lantern behind Watson and pulls the pen-knife from his pocket.

“Always a pleasure, Watson,” he remarks lightly, taking care not to touch Watson’s hands overly much as he positions the knife behind the rope.

“What are you doing here?” Watson gasps.  “Leave it, Holmes - they’ll be back.  God, I was certain they’d killed you.  Where have you been hiding?”

“The window ledge, outside.”  Holmes steps around into his line of sight.  Watson’s lower lip is split and swollen slightly.  Holmes dabs at it with a handkerchief, not particularly wishing to meet Watson’s gaze.

“It isn’t bad, honestly.  But I don’t know what they’re planning.  Could you hear any of it?”

“Most of it,” Holmes replies.  

“I knew you would still come,” Watson laughs wryly.  “And you did, and of course you had it all under control.  Better I had stayed at home, hm?”

“A more loyal friend man has never known,” Holmes says earnestly, finally meeting his eyes.  “Watson, for the misunderstanding earlier, I must apologise.  I don’t know why you--”

“Why did you do it?”

Holmes licks his lips, feels his heart banging about in his chest like a caged bird in a panic.  “Ah.  Well.  You see, Watson, the thing is...  It would seem that...  Er.”

“They’re coming back,” says Watson at the same time as Holmes hears their heavy footsteps reverberating up the passage.

Holmes takes a deep breath.

“Holmes, _go_ ,” he insists, jerking his head back.  But Holmes can’t.  Not without speaking.  He is aware of the footfalls increasing in volume, edging nearer, but he stands frozen.  

“What on earth are you--” Watson begins.

“I love you.  That is why - why I kissed you.  And also, well, Watson, you’re rather attractive.”  Holmes ducks his head and flees before he can see Watson’s response.  

The chill outside seems further increased by the abject terror he has just foolishly submitted himself to -- honestly, he cannot fathom what he was thinking, why he had to confess, to just come out and say such a thing in view of a dead body, with Watson tied up, and could he not have waited?  Holmes bangs his head lightly against the brick, exhaling loudly.  

The voices are but a murmur, but then Lee speaks.  “I think we’re nearly finished here.  Might I trust you to start the fire and therefore prove yourself not entirely useless, Yancy?”

“Of course,” says Yancy, rather sulkily.  “Do you--”

“Wait.”

Holmes doesn’t like Lee’s tone.  A shiver of apprehension courses through him.

“What is this?”

What is _what_?  Then realisation hits like an epiphany with a fist, and Holmes stares in dread at the empty spot on the ledge beside him - the spot where his lantern would be, had he not left it with Watson.  He curses under his breath.

“Where is he?” snaps Lee.  “He’s here, isn’t he?  Holmes.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Watson replies evenly.  His words are followed by a violent slap of skin-on-skin: the sound of a punch.  Holmes flinches then grits his teeth in anger.

“I am telling you--” Watson begins.

“Cut him.”

Holmes’ feet thud loudly on the floorboards before he has time to register what he is doing.  Four sets of eyes turn to appraise him.  He does a quick assessment.  The enormous fellow in the suit, the only one with a cane, must be Lee.  Holmes is shocked to find two of the remaining three are not unknown to him, and he has only today made their acquaintance.

Yancy, lips pursed and regarding him with obvious interest, was the young man who had gazed at him so lasciviously outside the solicitor’s.  And standing just behind him, the ruffian who assaulted him immediately after.

“Hello,” says Holmes.  “Am I interrupting?”

His erstwhile assailant is already shortening the distance between them, and Holmes finds himself wondering if this might be the Cockney or the Yorkshireman.

“So glad to see you again.  I failed to catch your name earlier.  How are your eyes?” Holmes asks, stumbling backwards.  

“You right bastard,” the man growls.  Ah, the Cockney, then.  The brute pulls back his fist to strike and Holmes throws up an arm to block.

Too little, too late.  The punch lands solidly with a force that makes his teeth chatter, and he feels his feet leave the floor.  His head collides once more with a brick wall and before he can even formulate an exasperated response, the world goes utterly black.


	3. I have wanted this far too long to let some little thing like terror stand in the way.

Holmes wakes gradually, aware that his eyes are watering.  He smells smoke.  Someone needs to open the damper on the chimney.  Mrs Hudson can do it when she comes in.  It seems no pressing matter, and he is rather comfortable lying - no, sitting - sitting here, and actually, no, he realises with a frown, he isn’t comfortable at all.  

There is a sharp pain in his hand, something cold and hard pressed up the length of his back, and his head aches dully.  He opens his eyes.  

Oh.  The warehouse is on fire.

He turns his head slowly to the right and discovers the source of the pain to his hand.  Watson is repeatedly pressing the heel of his boot into it, speaking as he does so. “Holmes.  Holmes.  Holmes?  Holmes, wake up.”

Holmes cannot see his hand, nor the heel of Watson’s boot, as his wrists are tied behind him, but it seems a logical assessment.

“Holmes?”

“All right, all right,” he murmurs blearily, squinting against the malevolent streaks of orange firelight.

Already the ceiling is a whirling inferno, the beams crackling insidiously.  The air is heavy with rolling clouds of smoke.  Watson slides down the iron pole to rest beside him, coughing fitfully.

“They drenched the place in oil,” says Watson, catching his breath.  “It’s intended to look like an accidental fire.  Please tell me you still have that knife handy.”

“In my pocket, if you can reach,” Holmes says, surveying the damage. Winscott is as of yet untouched, though flames lick perilously close to his feet.  Charred bits of papers - his files, his documents - float through the air like burnt leaves.  Holmes feels Watson digging in the pocket of his peacoat but registers it only dimly, as though in a dream, the same way he registers the splintering crackle of the spitting fire as it consumes the desk.

“Got it,” says Watson, and begins blindly hacking at the bonds.  Holmes tugs his hands as far apart as he can to pull the rope taut.  The first few ineffectual swipes of the knife do little more damage than would a finger plucking a violin string.  But then he feels the rope fraying, a satisfying give as the blade connects fully.

Holmes ignores the bite of the rope against his wrist and pulls until it snaps.  The break jars his mind back into life.  “We have to get Winscott out,” he informs Watson, rising quickly and taking the knife.  

“How?” asks Watson.  “For that matter, how are we to get ourselves out?  The stairway is blocked.”

A glance confirms it.  Holmes couldn’t see while bound, for he was facing the other way, but the singed and still-burning carcass of a ceiling beam obstructs the way.  

“There is a way.  You won’t like it,” he tells Watson.

“Why am I not surprised?” Watson says, exhaling loudly.  The exhale turns exultant as his wrists are freed.  “Where is this unpleasant escape route, and please don’t tell me we’re jumping out the window.”

“Then I shan’t tell you, Watson.  But there is little danger, only the Thames below.”

The fire snakes across oily streaks on the floor, inching dangerously close to Winscott.  Holmes stamps out the nearest flames and tries pushing the chair, but it will not budge.  An experimental tug proves his earlier theory that one man could not have borne this weight alone.  Holmes awkwardly topples the deceased out of his chair and onto the floor, cringing at the contact.  “Help me with this, if you’d be so kind,” he pants, lifting an arm and yanking.   Instantly Watson is heaving alongside.

“Ah, Holmes?”

“Yes?”  

“Were you serious?  Earlier?”

There can be no doubt as to what Watson alludes, and Holmes finds his already increased heartbeat further frenzied by the question.  “Absolutely,” he murmurs uncomfortably, pausing in his exertions to get a grip under Winscott’s arm.  “Come, Watson, heave him up to the sill.”

“It’s just-” Watson says, breathlessly, pushing desperately at the bulky body.  “Just- I may have over-reacted earlier.”

Winscott balances on the sill and Holmes holds him there, eyeing the flames warily, and attempting to regain some semblance of normal breathing.  The topic of conversation isn’t helping.  “Oh?”

“Yes.  I had rather foolishly assumed I knew the cause for your actions, and that your sole motivation was... well, to come further between myself and Mary.”

The corpse slips from Holmes’ grasp, but he quickly regains his hold.  “Oh.  Ah.  Really?  That’s...  We need to give him a proper shove here, Watson, or else someone will have a terrible mess to clean up come morning.”

Watson makes a face.  “And I thought there was only the Thames below?”

“Well, the Thames and just a little, inconsequential cobbled walkway.  Still, best to be safe.”  

“Of course.”  They position Winscott’s legs over the sill.  “On three?”

“On three.  Oh, and Watson?  That was a ludicrous assumption.  One.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“Two.  I assure you, Miss Morstan was the furthest thing from my mind.  Three.”

They shove mightily and moments later, a satisfying splash is heard.

“That’s done, then.  Pray he is polite enough to float.  Now, doctors or detectives first?”

“Just go!  I’ve had to beat flames off my trousers twice already.”  

Holmes clambers out the window, startled yet again by the severity of the wind.  He blinks against it, shuffling along the ledge.  “Watson, should I fail to make it through this, I want you to know--”

“Holmes, I swear upon all that is holy, if you don’t move --”

“Fair enough,” says Holmes, and jumps.

He grits his teeth against the instant unbearable lurch, the hideous flip-flop of his insides.  Worse still is the icy slap of the water when he hits it, the force and chill more than enough to steal his breath away.  There is nothing but black before his open eyes and for a moment he cannot tell which way is up, or how far down he is, or even if he has survived.  Shock numbs him utterly.  But the thought of Watson falling into the same inky cesspool and experiencing the same braces him, and he is prepared to be the stronger of the two if necessary.  After all, Watson would not be here had he not come for Holmes.

A little warmth returns to him at the thought.

The glass mosaic surface is shattered by Watson’s rise back to the surface.  He sputters and curses and Holmes laughs in relief.  Not far off is the body.  They retrieve it together and wordlessly drag it to the quay.  

“What now?” asks Watson.

“We take him to Scotland Yard.”

“And how do you propose we do that?”  Watson sits shivering in the pale moonlight, delicate rivulets of water streaming down his face.  Holmes has the strange sudden desire to lean forward and lick, to lap the moisture from Watson’s face.  Head wound, he reminds himself, blinking and bewildered.  It must be the head wound.

Definitely the head wound. That water is disgusting.

The not-too-distant rattle of carriage wheels greets his ears and he is up and running, ignoring both the questions Watson shouts after him and the unpleasant squelch of his shoes.  A short sprint to the bridge brings him in sight of the approaching carriage.  Mercifully, it is unengaged.  

Though the driver lifts a coal-coloured brow at Holmes’ sodden state, he says nothing.  Neither does he seem much perturbed at having to wait for Holmes’ “friends” to join him.

Holmes returns to Watson and the late Winscott, bearing this good news.  Despite the former’s protestations that Holmes has finally gone completely mad, they each manage to get an arm under Winscott and heave him up.  They drag him to the carriage as if he were merely asleep, or unconscious from too much drink.  

“The key to carrying such exploits off successfully, Watson,” Holmes explains in hushed tones en route, “is to act as if what we’re doing is the most plausible thing in the world.  I once dragged twelve live chickens through the Adelphi, and so great was my conviction that the bystanders behaved as if nothing at all was amiss.”

“It seems to me more likely they thought you deranged, and feared attack should they draw your attention,” grunts Watson.

“Ah.  That, too, is a possibility.”

Be it their conviction or mere apathy on part of the driver, they manage to load the body without any trouble.  Possibly it is too cold and the hour too late for him to be much concerned by their affairs.  The extra half-crown Holmes slipped him might also have gone some way in dissuading his interest.

After the three of them are reasonably settled, Holmes taps the roof and the cabbie stirs the horses, whisking them away as requested, toward Scotland Yard.  The streets are deserted and the horses eager.  Holmes cannot make out the time from his pocket-watch in the scant light cast by the the outside carriage lamps.  The bells of Big Ben sound seconds later, informing him it is midnight.

The silence that follows is not awkward, though he is acutely aware of Watson’s nearness.  The press of Watson’s arm and leg at his side is comforting - and would be even more so were Watson not wracked with tiny tremors from the cold.  

“Watson, I am sorry to have inadvertently dragged you along on such an errand, but know that I am unfailingly grateful for your assistance.  I promise to somehow repay the gesture.”  He places his hand on Watson’s knee as he speaks, a chaste gesture of thanks.  

Surprisingly warm fingers curl over his.  “I shall hold you to that.”

Anticipation, delicious and sweet, winds its way through him.  He swallows, squeezes Watson’s hand, then rises and raps loudly on the ceiling of the carriage.  The clatter of horse hooves on cobbles slows and then dies as the carriage comes to a stop.

“Holmes, what are you doing?”

Holmes opens the door and leans through the aperture, addressing the driver.  “A stop at 221 Baker Street first, if you don’t mind.”

 

  
• • •  


 

 

It is nearly four when Holmes returns, and he feels every minute he has spent in soaking clothes like the grip of death.  His fingers tremble as he turns the key.  Watson was deposited at the Baker Street address earlier, much to his surprise but apparent relief, while Holmes continued the journey to the Yard.  How much more pleasantly the hours in between might have passed had he simply left the corpse in the carriage and requested the indifferent cabbie deliver his friend to Scotland Yard as a gift, courtesy of Sherlock Holmes, he does not care to dwell upon.

It had been an option, but the fools likely would’ve botched the post-mortem, had they performed one at all.  Obvious death by bullet wound, indeed.  Warmth may elude him, but satisfaction he has in spades.  The threads of the case, though tangled, are nearly all within his hands.  Only one or two small trifles remain to be sorted, and they can wait until morning.

The lamps are low, the fire dying.  Watson is nestled on the settee beneath a woollen blanket, dozing peacefully.  Holmes smiles to himself.  He stands before the hearth after prodding the flames back into life.  Warmth floods through him like relief.  

A bath is in order.  He washes himself hurriedly, eager to be dry again.  After vigorously towelling off and wringing the excess of moisture from his hair, he dons a clean nightshirt, followed by his tatty mouse-coloured dressing gown.  He feels decidedly human and less like a poor imitation of a sponge as he returns to the sitting room, intent on spending the remaining hours before dawn curled up in the armchair with a pipe, tending the fire and watching Watson sleep.

Watson, however, is awake.  He stands before the fire, his back to the room, silhouetted by an amber glow and throwing behind him a long shadow.  He casts a look over his shoulder at Holmes and smiles.  “Have you been back long?  I didn’t hear you return.”

Watson wears a borrowed nightshirt as well as Holmes’ over-sized blue dressing gown.  A nameless feeling, both predatory and possessive, seeps into Holmes at the realisation.  He stares silently, taking an unsteady breath, then remembers he has been posed a question.

“Not terribly.  Are you warm enough, at long last?”

Watson nods in response, turning back to the fire.

“The warehouse was destroyed,” Holmes informs him, drawing closer to the hearth.

“And Winscott?”

“The post-mortem examination corroborated my suspicions quite nicely.”

“Which were?”

“Come, Watson, all this morbidity before bedtime?  You’ll have nightmares.”  At the vexed look which Watson gives him, he feels compelled to add, “Should you accompany me on a visit to the Winscott residence tomorrow, I shall be more than pleased to elucidate.  Still yet there is one matter with which my mind is not thoroughly at ease, but nothing can be done about it before breakfast.”

Watson’s eyes have been trailing over his face the entire time, and feels himself growing hot beneath the scrutiny.  “Your bandage needs to be changed,” says the doctor, and it is, Holmes insists to himself, only a minor disappointment that Watson’s attention was drawn out of consideration rather than some baser interest.

Then Watson places a heavy hand on his shoulder, pushing Holmes down onto his knees and causing lust to race through his bloodstream like venom, his pulse increasing.  Yet Watson behaves as if this were perfectly ordinary behaviour for a doctor and retrieves bandages, dressing, and antiseptic from the table.

Holmes sinks onto the tiger-skin rug, watching Watson, illumined by firelight, do the same.  Watson pauses before proceeding.  An inevitability seems to hover over them.  Holmes wonders if it has always been there.

Silently, Watson removes the damp bandage.  Holmes’ eyes drop to the rug, to the medical supplies incongruously littering the surface: sensible, clean.  There is a longing within him the likes of which he has never known.  But patience, he has heard, is a virtue.

The night seems still and empty around them.  Endless.  The sting of the antiseptic serves only to sharpen his senses.  Each feather-light touch of Watson’s fingertips feels indelibly marked onto his skin.  The dressing is applied with utmost care, and then the bandage.  Then a single finger, exceedingly tender, tilts Holmes’ face up to meet Watson’s gaze.

Moments or minutes are lost in open study, meticulous assessment, eyes on faces, reading the quiet stories they tell.  Watson’s countenance fairly sings of devotion, were Holmes not already aware of it, but writ there too is something altogether stronger, overwhelming, and desperate, and worn around the edges from years of necessary concealment.

“Are you still cold?” Watson asks softly, his voice barely louder than the fire.  “You’re shivering.”

“With good reason.  I am terrified,” Holmes murmurs glibly, but the tone is false and the words ring true.

Watson draws Holmes’ hand to his cheek, eyes closing.  His lips, dry and gentle, press a kiss to the back.  His eyes meets Holmes’, something dark and mercurial flashing within them, before turning his attentions to the inside of Holmes’ wrist, where a kiss is placed that is decidedly less chaste, and far wetter.

Holmes inhales sharply, skin tingling at the touch.

“I apologise, Holmes.  I have wanted this far too long to let some little thing like terror stand in the way.”  His voice is somehow voluptuous, all curves and hidden softness, and the effect is akin to a drug.  

Lust and want and fear create a heady cocktail, and Holmes is rendered nearly insensible as Watson stretches, cat-like, across the rug to meet him.

“Why hide it?” Holmes murmurs, his hand rising to curl through Watson’s hair as if of its own accord, as if desire had rendered him but a puppet.  

“I believed you uninterested in romance, Holmes.  You were so adamant,” Watson whispers, his lips brushing Holmes’ cheek.  “You professed no need of love, of physical affection.  I could not bear the thought of rejection.  Better to remain a friend at arm’s length than nothing at all.”

Holmes is dimly aware of being eased back onto the rug.  His eyes close at the gentle brush of fingertips across his lips as Watson crawls atop him.  “I...  I am beginning to see the error of my thinking,” he replies drunkenly, arousal winding through him.  His hips crave contact.  His hands slide over Watson’s shoulders, fisting in the fabric of the dressing gown.

It seems an eternity of waiting before Watson’s mouth collides against his and his mind shatters, all coherent thought strewn like so much jetsam in a maelstrom.  An explosion of white bursts behind tightly-closed eyelids, and he is rendered immobile by Watson’s tongue, wet and velvet and perfect.  He clings with frantic abandon, hands greedy, lips insistent.

The hair at the nape of Watson’s neck is softest, for here - just under the ear, beneath delicate skin, is the rapid-fire pulse of his heartbeat. And finally, pressure, unapologetic, as their bodies align. Muscle and bone and sinew, the sharp curve of Watson’s hips - Holmes’ hands are nimble and find their way quickly beneath layers of fabric to caress bare skin.  Watson’s breath hitches and he pushes against Holmes bodily, fervently.  

Holmes hooks a leg over his and they move as a beautifully obscene machine, undulating, oscillating, pistoning wildly.  A tension coils inside him - the building charge to a galvanising shock.  Watson pants against his neck unsteadily, hand fumbling beneath the cloth of his nightshirt.  Holmes groans at the hardness he feels echoing his own, at the mere thought of being touched; he seems to be lifting off the floor, reaching - reaching - reaching -

Watson’s fingers close around him.  With a strangled cry he finds his bliss.  Watson moves against him still, trembling with exertion or want.  When Holmes’ ardent hands find him, his entire body goes rigid, goes still, as if focussing solely on Holmes’ sweat-slick fingertips.  Then, with the keenest of gasps he spends against Holmes’ stomach, relinquishing control and collapsing as if boneless against him.

They lie comfortably entwined, sharing exhausted kisses and occasional sighs for a while afterward.  Holmes is aware of never having felt so comfortable close to another, or of having ever held anything so tightly.  Watson fetches the blanket from the settee and they drift off to sleep where they are, firelight warm on their faces as the first vestiges of dawn stream in through the window from outside.

 

  
• • •  


 

Watson is dressed when Holmes wakes, towering over him and looking down with a wry smile.  “You _are_ planning on getting up at some point today, I presume?”

Holmes blinks and sits up, stretching.  “Of course.  Hm.  What time is it?”  Tea and toast are on the sideboard, he notices, and he wonders idly if Mrs Hudson brought it before or after Watson removed himself from Holmes’ embrace.  He rather hopes after.  Had she caught them, her expression would have been most entertaining; it is a sad thought he might have missed it.

“Nearly ten.  Why are you smiling like that?”

“Oh, no reason.  I say, is that the morning paper?”

“It is,” Watson replies, passing it to him.  “Are you looking for something in particular?”

Holmes’ eyes scan the front page.  He scratches his head absently, peering through the succeeding pages.  “Perhaps.  It was not my intention to have slept so late.  ‘pon my word, Watson, you exhausted me thoroughly.”  He tosses the paper carelessly aside and rises, increasingly aware of the hollow rumble in his stomach.

The high spots of colour that appear on the doctor’s cheek are most gratifying, and most becoming.  “I took the liberty of raiding your wardrobe.  It was not so surprising to have found enough of my own clothes there to suffice,” says Watson, dropping into his chair.  “I even found a shirt that you had not yet managed to stain, though it is hopelessly wrinkled.  How it came to be under your pillow escapes me.”

“Truly a mystery,” says Holmes, suddenly fascinated by the toast.

“I have a patient today,” Watson says whole minutes later, breaking the companionable silence that has fallen between them.

“That’s inconvenient.”  Holmes frowns into his cup.

“It’s only the one, Holmes.  I’ll be finished no later than noon,” he replies.  

“Then I shall call for you at half past.  That is assuming, of course, that you would like to be present when I put this little puzzle of ours to bed.”

Watson’s face is perfectly straight, but his eyes twinkle mischievously.  “If you absolutely insist,” he says languidly, standing.  “Though I would not much object if you put me to bed instead.”

Holmes chokes quietly on his tea.

“Something the matter, Holmes?”

He clears his throat.  “Of course not.”

“Half twelve, then.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Holmes - I forgot to tell you yesterday evening, in all the confusion...”  Watson pauses behind Holmes’ chair, hands a comforting weight on his shoulders.

“Yes?”

Without warning, Watson tips the chair back; when Holmes turns his head to protest, a gossamer-fine kiss, light and delicate, is placed against his parted lips.  He does not realise his eyes have closed until his lids lift gradually again.  Watson regards him earnestly, serenely, absurdly close, eyes strangely bright.  There is not a word in all the English language fit to describe that particular shade of blue.  “I love you, too,” he says simply, then pushes the chair aright and walks out the door.

Holmes allows himself a moment to smile idiotically before forcing his face into a scowl, as if to be certain he is still able.

 

  
• • •  


 

 

“Mr Holmes!  Dr Watson, was it?  Do come in, do come in,” Mrs Winscott cries warmly.  The change in her demeanour from their previous visit is staggering.  She pushes past the startled butler in her hurry to welcome them.  Her eyes are red-rimmed, face blotchy with the aftermath of tears.

“Have we, I wonder, got the wrong address?” Holmes asks Watson _sotto voce_.  

“Mrs Sullivan is in the drawing room.  I am sure she’ll be just as pleased to see you as I am.  Would you like any refreshments?”

“No, thank you.  We merely came to clear up a few matters.”

Her lips tighten, and just as quickly relax as she leans forward, speaking in more private tones.  “I am pleased to hear so, Mr Holmes, as I have learned some distressing news.”

This development is unexpected.  He purses his lips.  “Oh?  What news might that be?”

“I feel it may be best to tell my tale of woe with Mrs Sullivan present.  She is owed the truth, after all.”

“I have no doubt.  How very kind of you.”  He smirks at Watson, whose face shows suspicion but no sign of having deduced the facts of the matter.

Mrs Sullivan greets them as warmly yet tearfully as before.  They are soon seated comfortably in plush armchairs.  Mrs Winscott does not join them.  There is something serpentine in her manner as she glides around the room, an almost palpable tension just beneath her composed exterior.  

She pauses before the mantel, lightly caressing a small ivory statuette of an elephant.  “Poor dear Charles,” she sighs.  “How he loved this.  A client brought it from India.”

“You said you had distressing news,” says Holmes, caring little for the aside.

The lady takes a seat before them, regal posture framed by a wicker-back chair.  “I am afraid so,” she says mournfully.  “It seems Mr Winscott met his end at the hands of an old friend of the family.”  Ignoring Mrs Sullivan’s gasp, she continues.  “He has confessed it to me just this morning.  He came during breakfast, before Mrs Sullivan rose.”

“Have you informed the police?” asks Watson, tone neutral.  Holmes fights the urge to smile.  Watson suspects her terribly.  

“No, I wished to consult with you first, Mr Holmes.”  She folds her hands neatly in her lap, her gaze pleading.

“I see.  You wished I should further waste your time before you allow the regular police to apprehend your husband’s murderer.”  

Watson mutters something under his breath.  It might have been _Oh, Lord, not again_.

Holmes leans back in his chair, surveying her coolly.  “Please, continue.”

Mrs Sullivan, cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment, leans forward to interject, “I am sure she didn’t mean it quite like that.  The last time you were here, Mr Holmes, we were both fairly beside ourselves with grief.”

“She speaks the truth,” Mrs Winscott insists.  “For my unforgivable rudeness before, Mr Holmes, I can only apologise.  I am sure you must have formed some theory regarding my husband’s disappearance, Mr Holmes; I merely wished to see if it fitted with what I have learned.”

This is something closer to the truth.  He urges her to continue.

“My husband has - had - a friend he met through his business, a Mr Ezekiel Lee.  Over the course of three years, Mr Lee has been so often in our home that he has grown to be a dear friend of the family.  A fine man, I thought, but there was always something sinister about him.”

“Very,” agrees Mrs Sullivan, frowning.  “I have never much liked him.”

The slight look of irritation as she regards her sister-in-law is only on Mrs Winscott’s face for a moment, but it is a moment too long to miss Holmes’ notice.  

“You see, Mr Holmes, his business has not done nearly so well as my husband’s, and I believe Mr Lee has frequently sought his advice.  It is out of jealousy, then, that I suspect that Mr Lee murdered my husband.”

Mrs Sullivan’s gasp is a pitiful thing, wounded and faint, and her hand comes to cover her mouth.  “Then Charles truly...  No, no, please, say it isn’t true.”  Her eyes glisten with unspent tears.  Watson is by her in an instant, offering his handkerchief.

“I am afraid so, Anna.  He told me this morning.  The guilt had overwhelmed him completely.”  Mrs Winscott shakes her head sadly.

“That’s rather a large confession to make over breakfast,” Holmes murmurs, unperturbed.  “My apologies for the interruption.  Pray continue.”

Mrs Winscott seems shaken by his composure.  Though she continues, the words fall flat and lack conviction.  Still, she soldiers on with her tale.  “He said he came through the window, surprising my husband, and shot him in cold blood.”

Holmes steeples his fingers beneath his chin.  “And then?”

“What do you mean?”

“The body, Mrs Winscott.  What did he do with the body?  You checked the room after hearing the shot, did you not?”

“He...  Well, he didn’t tell me that part.”

“Would you like me to tell you, then?”

For the first time since Holmes and Watson have arrived, something of Mrs Winscott’s genuine emotion shows on her face, taut and frozen.  She is afraid.  “Of course,” she whispers.

“Mr Lee carelessly failed to inform you where Mr Winscott was concealed whilst you were looking for him.  He was in the wardrobe.  Yet I don’t believe Mr Lee did shoot your husband - he is rather a portly man, and his feet were too small to have made those prints on the trellis and sideboard, even if he could have climbed it.”

“I am repeating only what he told me.”

“It is, Mrs Winscott, a very curious thing that he should have told you all this whilst being locked up.  You look surprised.  I take it then he did not mention during this tete-a-tete that he was apprehended by Scotland Yard some time around six this morning?”

Mrs Sullivan has been weeping quietly, face in her hands, but now looks up at Holmes, then at Mrs Winscott.

“It seems rude to continue telling such stories, Mrs Winscott, when I’m sure Mrs Sullivan is eager to hear the truth.  Shall you tell her what happened, or shall she hear it from the lips of a stranger?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Mrs Winscott says shakily, her face ashen and waxy.  She is terrified.

“Very well.  Mrs Sullivan, some of what your sister-in-law says is true.  Mr Winscott was indeed shot in his bedroom at the request of Mr Lee, and his body concealed temporarily.  But that was not what killed your brother.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Mr Winscott was already dead.  He never sleeps in the daytime, you said, and I have no doubt that under normal circumstances that is true.  Yet he had removed his shoes, his watch was wound, and he was lying in bed: that, very probably, is why the vase was broken.  The intruder entered through that window simply because it was the only window accessible by climbing, thanks to the placement of that trellis.  No doubt he was startled to find Mr Winscott, who never sleeps in the day.  The vase breaks.  Yet Mr Winscott does not stir!  The fiend cannot believe his luck.  So he pulls the trigger and hides in the wardrobe.”

Mrs Winscott watches him with an expression akin to revulsion creeping over her face.  Her hands clutch the arms of chair desperately, as if she fears being thrown from it.

“Shall I continue?” he asks, not waiting for a response.  “You and Mrs Sullivan inspect the room, finding nothing.  Then - at Mrs Sullivan’s request - you come to me.  The intruder waits in the closet.  And at this point I must ask for confirmation, I fear - have any of your servants gone missing since Mr Winscott’s disappearance?”

“Yancy,” Mrs Sullivan replies softly.  “He was Charles’s valet.  We thought perhaps... shock.  Or grief.  I suppose it wasn’t?”  Her mouth hardens.

“I am afraid not.  He is presently in Mr Lee’s employ, having no doubt performed the task assigned to him well enough.  To have transported Mr Winscott from his room, down the stairs, and then off the grounds would have required not only an extra pair of hands but someone with knowledge of the routines of the other servants.”

“I see,” she says dully.  She casts a weak smile at Watson, who pats her hand before returning to his own chair.  “What happened next, Mr Holmes?”

“Winscott’s body was taken to his warehouse, which was set afire in hopes of making his death look accidental.  Unfortunately for Mr Lee, I am terribly clever and happen to be an excellent pickpocket, so I was able to come across this.”  He takes from his pocket the slip of paper bearing the address to Winscott's warehouse and hands it to her.  “I was there when he burned the warehouse, as was Watson.  We managed to retrieve your brother’s body, which is now in the possession of Scotland Yard.  At my insistence, a post-mortem examination was performed which revealed the true cause of death.  Solid metallic oxide was found adhering to the membranous lining of his stomach  - as is indicative of arsenic poisoning. You put it in the tea, I expect. Is that right?” he asks Mrs Winscott.

At this, Mrs Sullivan’s eyes widen.  “Arsenic!”  Her gaze turns hateful as she casts it toward Mrs Winscott.  “How could you?  He loved you, you beast!”

“I-I didn’t!” Mrs Winscott protests, rising, as if anticipating an attack.  From the murderous look on Mrs Sullivan’s face, it isn’t unwise of her. "I... It wasn't..." Her eyes roam from face to face fretfully. And then she sinks back into her chair, lips quivering.

"But why, for God's sake, Nora?" cries Mrs Sullivan.

Holmes replies, rather than give her another opportunity to lie. “Possibly for insurance money, but let us not be hasty. There was one matter on which I was yet unclear,” Holmes says, “and that was why Mr Lee - as you say, Mrs Winscott, a friend - might do such a thing.  I paid a visit to him myself this morning, yet he wouldn’t be compelled to talk.  You have inadvertently cleared it up yourself with your intimate knowledge of his crime.  Tell me, how long had you been having an affair?”

Mrs Sullivan, overwhelmed by the war between grief and rage being fought so visibly on her round face, can bear the betrayal no longer.  She crumples, body wracked with sobs. "You have taken him from me, and for what?" she whimpers. Watson rises to approach but she stills him with a lifted hand. "No, please. I need to hear this."

"I..." begins Mrs Winscott, but it seems she has nothing to say after all.

"Do you deny the affair?" asks Holmes, raising a brow.

"No." Mrs Winscott will not meet his eyes. "He - he wasn't like Charles. I don't expect you to understand."

"He planned this murder without your knowledge. So that you might be free. Did you plan to run away together? How romantic. Perhaps you should have told him of your own plans, of the insurance money - which you could not collect without a body. This tale of a confession over breakfast is nothing more than an attempt at retribution. That is it, isn't it? I hate to be corrected, but it really is in your best interests to do so if I'm wrong."

“Mr Holmes, you don’t know what it was like,” Mrs Winscott moans.  “Have mercy, I beg of you!  Show some sympathy, please!”

“Oh, I think not.  However, Inspector Lestrade should be waiting just outside.  Cast your entreaties in his direction; perhaps you will receive more profitable results.”

 

  
• • •  


 

“That was a nasty business,” Watson says thoughtfully as they rattle back toward Baker St.  “Poor Mrs Sullivan."

"Better she knows the truth than have a little something extra added to her tea come morning."

"I suppose you're right. In any case, you did an admirable job of clearing it up, I must say.  I have just one question: how did you know they were having an affair?”

“It seemed unlikely he should reveal his method of murder were they not close, nor indeed at all had he not done it for her.”

“A rather grisly gift.”

“Indeed.”

“Holmes... speaking of affairs, I think--”

“Say no more, Watson,” Holmes replies, feeling his stomach twist into a knot.  “It is a delicate situation.  Though I can’t say I’m pleased at the prospect of... sharing...  I suppose it is the only way.”

“That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

“You aren’t jilting me already?  Watson, if you do, I swear to you that I shall blackmail you with a vengeance the likes of which has never before been seen.”

Watson blinks, then chuckles.  “I shall keep that in mind.  Yet that wasn’t it, either.  I merely thought, well, perhaps I was too hasty in my decision to quit our old rooms.”  He looks away, out the window, quickly.

“You’d like to return?” asks Holmes, a sudden effervescence replacing the knot.

“Yes.  If you’ll have me back.”

“I have told you, Watson.  You’re always welcome there.”

“Ah.  Good.  And really, there’s no rush to be getting married, is there?  I’m still reasonably young, and I could focus more on building my practice.”

“Of course.  But what of your devotion to Miss Morstan?” Holmes asks, directing his attention to a spot on the seat before them.

“That is easily enough remedied.  She told me if I left the opera early that she wished never to see me again.”

“I see.  I applaud your priorities but mourn your loss.”

“I suppose you win some, lose some,” says Watson with a sigh.  Holmes feels fingers slip between his, nesting, making a home.

“An admirable motto,” he replies with a smile.


End file.
